


paper wings

by FlowerStorm



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Airplane Trip, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuban Lance, Flirty Lance, Fluff, M/M, Or Is he?, Soft keith, keith is not down for holding hands with a stranger, lance is scared of flying, trust me - Freeform, visiting havana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:11:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerStorm/pseuds/FlowerStorm
Summary: When the first drops of rain raced down his window, Lance hadn’t been thrilled, but neither had he begged the heavens for mercy. No one in their right mind enjoyed turbulent flights, and Lance could barely tolerate smooth ones. But he was a responsible young-adult, not fucking five. At the time, he’d been certain he could handle himself.That was two minutes before heaven and hell collapsed and released a torrent that put The Great Flood to shame. Two minutes before Lance unlearned how to breathe.Mami knew him too well. For the past three weeks, she’d pestered him on the phone to catch Hunk’s flight to Miami, so he’d have a companion for the first leg of the trip. But he’d waved off her concern as over-the-top. He could get on fine without a babysitter and he’d prove it.He was in college, damnit. He didn’t need someone to hold his hand.At least, that’s what he’d thought on the ground. Up in the clouds, was a completely different story.“Can I hold your hand?” he croaked to the stranger next to him."What?"





	paper wings

**Author's Note:**

> hey lovelies, this fic has been updated for the sake of my internal cringing every time i reread it. hope that's okay! no major plot changes, though. 
> 
> thank you for your sweet comments and kudos, enjoy!

 

**…**

For all that girls gushed about _quinceñeras_ being ‘to die for’ _,_ Lance had never imagined he might actually perish on his way to one. An hour into what he’d prayed would be an eventless flight, the plane crossed through a lightning storm, pummeling any hope Lance might’ve had of holding on to his dignity.

“ _Ay de mí_.”

Even the mighty roar of the engines was muffled to nothing by the storm. Flashes of white streaked outside his window, and the plane shuddered.

_I’m going to die._

When the first drops of rain raced down his window, Lance hadn’t been thrilled, but neither had he begged the heavens for mercy. No one in their right mind enjoyed turbulent flights, and Lance could barely tolerate smooth ones. But he was a responsible young-adult, not fucking five. At the time, he’d been certain he could handle himself.     

That was two minutes before heaven and hell collapsed and released a torrent that put The Great Flood to shame. Two minutes before Lance unlearned how to breathe.  

“ _Padre nuestro, que estás en el Cielo_ …”

Trapped between vengeful clouds, the once sturdy plane turned into a deathtrap. At every shudder, every sickening bout of turbulence, he was convinced they would plummet. It felt like soaring in a paper plane - the kind he’d pelt Hunk with in high school, old English assignments that learned how to fly.

They were flying in a paper plane, and once the storm soaked their flimsy paper wings, they would crash.

He’d never prayed as fervently or quietly in his life. “ _... san-santificado sea tu nombre, venga a nosotros tu reino-_ ”

Even if the storm passed, Lance would not survive the torture of four more hours of flying. If by some miracle the plane managed to land in one piece in Miami, nothing in the universe would convince him to get on his last flight to Havana.

“ _Perdóname, mami,_ ” he mumbled, eyes screwed shut.

He loved his sister to death, and there was no disputing the momentousness of fifteen in a young girl’s life, but none of that was reason enough to make a masochist out of him.  He would not get on the next plane. No.

His heart had relocated to a spot underneath his jaw, loud and overbearing, and he was not keen on pushing it any further up.

Stupid plane. Stupid storm. And extra-stupid Lance for going alone, perfectly aware of his own crippling fear of flying. He’d been out of his mind when he’d agreed to this; there was no other explanation. Consumed by homesickness and the idea of reuniting with family, of returning to Havana after a year away.

Planes had terrified him since childhood, but a cocky desire to prove himself overruled his better judgment. Of course, bravery came easier when the object of one’s fear was but a speck in the future instead of a tangible aircraft, rocking at 30.000 feet from the ground.

Mami knew him too well. For the past three weeks, she’d pestered him on the phone to catch Hunk’s flight to Miami, so he’d have a companion for the first leg of the trip. But he’d waved off her concern as over-the-top. He could get on fine without a babysitter and he’d prove it.

He was in college, damnit. He didn’t need someone to hold his hand.

At least, that’s what he’d thought on the ground. Up in the clouds, was a completely different story.

“Can I hold your hand?” he croaked to the stranger next to him.

"What?"

Had Lance been in his element, he would’ve rolled his eyes at the attractive, albeit dense, boy and thrown in a flirtatious line. As it was, Lance considered not puking on him a victory.

He swallowed the panic in his throat. “I said, can I hold your hand?"

He prayed not to come off too desperate or creepy, they were strangers after all. And Lance McClain was not a creep. On the ground, he was charming, charismatic, and overall pleasant to deal with.

Unfortunately, airplane-Lance was nothing but an awkward, sweaty mess who startled at the _ping_ to fasten your seatbelt. Not being sick on stranger’s laps was his only quality, and at this point, even that wasn’t in the bag.

What a pitiful predicament. Suave, on-the-ground Lance would’ve jumped at the opportunity to woo the boy at his side. Mysterious, brooding, black clothes and even blacker hair, styled in an outdated cliché. A mullet. Unbelievable. No person born in this century wore mullets, except this kid.

Yes. Definitely Lance's type.

“Why?” Mullet-boy crossed his arms, almost like he was afraid Lance would attempt to seize his unsuspecting hand.

“Because." Lance swallowed. Gestured at the shaking metal-beast encasing them. “Turbulence.”

Mullet-boy’s frown didn’t budge.

Lance offered his hand, palm up, eyes pleading.

The boy put his earbuds back on. “No, thanks.”

Lance flushed, embarrassment churning with the fear in his stomach. Fine then. The comfort of a stranger’s hand wasn’t worth much anyway. He’d find another distraction. Four hours wasn’t that long.

The plane dipped in turbulent winds again, and his heart leaped into his mouth.

Fuck it. He poked Mullet-boy who ripped his earbuds off by the chords. “What do you want?”

“Please dude, it’ll only be for a little bit. Five minutes, I swear.”

Mullet-boy bristled. “Look, I don't need your hand. I’m not scared."

A tight laugh escaped Lance’s lips, and he ignored the other boy’s glare. “You? Man, you are dense. I meant me. I’m scared of flying,” He patted his chest for emphasis. “I am the scared one, not you. I would never ever imply you were scared of turbulence.” He licked his dry lips. “Now that that’s been cleared up, may I hold your hand?”

The boy wrinkled his pretty nose, eyes narrowed. “We don’t know each other.”

The excuse sounded lame to Lance, especially with the angry thunder rumbling overhead.  Mullet-boy wanted to nit-pick. Fine, Lance would indulge him.

“My name is Lance. I’m a Leo, I major in Photography, my favorite ice-cream is Mango Delight and I enjoy long walks on the beach. Pleasure to meet you.” He extended his sweaty palm, thought better, wiped it on his jeans, and then offered it again.

Mullet-head ignored his hand. “Keith.”

Alright, Lance could work with that. He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Cool name. So, do you fly a lot, Keith?”

“Yes.”

Lightning lit up the stormy clouds outside the window.

“Awesome.” Tap, tap, tap. “And you’ve never been scared? Not even as a little kid?" Lance’s breathing was dangerously shallow. Tap, tap. "I mean, that's impressive." Tap, tap, tap. "How do you do it?”

As impossible as it seemed, Keith’s expression turned even sourer. “Hey—cut it out.” He pushed Lance’s hand off the armrest with his elbow. “There’s nothing to be scared of, anyhow. Planes are safer than automobiles. Faster too. ”

Lance ignored his comment and raised a brow. “If you held my hand, I wouldn't be able to tap, you know?”

Keith crossed his arms. “The turbulence stopped,” he deflected.

Before Lance could sigh in relief – because it had ceased for a bit – it returned full-force and with vengeance to contradict Keith.

Lance screwed his eyes though it did nothing to block the turbulence or his intrusive thoughts. The engines would fail – had to under this storm – and then the plane would plummet. Lightning would set the plane on fire and they’d become a metal shooting star. And he would never see Victoria or Juan or Mami or Papi—

He was hyperventilating. Oh god, this was bad. So bad. There was no worse place to have a panic attack than on a plane, away from doctors. and hospitals, and comfort blankets. Trapped thousands of feet in the air.

Engine and thunder pound, pound, pounded in his ears. Or maybe that was just his blood.

“For the love of— just hold the poor kid’s hand.”

Lance startled.

The comment came from a girl with a pixie-cut and comically large round glasses. She sat across from them, a bulky laptop open on her tray-table which she ignored in favor of crossing her arms at Keith who, in turn, glowered back. She was as unfazed by him as she was by the tempest.

“Put yourself in his place, dude. Show some compassion.”

The chords of Keith’s earbuds knotted as his hands curled. “Mind your own business.”

“It’s basic human decency. What? Have you never felt alone or scared?”

Lance was afraid Keith’s jaw might pop from how hard he clenched it.

“You sit here and hold his hand then,” Keith bit out. “Since you’re so decent.”

Lance thought about intervening (things were starting to look worse in here than outside) but he was pathetically mute, mouth marred by the sick taste of fear.

Pixie-girl tilted her chin up, rising to the challenge. “I will. Trade places with me.”

“Ma’am,” snapped a flight attendant rushing up the aisle, “for your safety, please buckle up and remain in your seat. We are going through a rough patch.”

“I’m just switching places-”

“Not now. For safety reasons, every passenger must remain-”

A clap of thunder. The plane gave gut-flipping jerk, and Lance shrieked. In sync, the flight attendant toppled into pixie-girl’s lap, and Lance’s knee shot up, knocking into Keith’s tray-table. Ice water spilled water over the Keith’s dark jeans.

Mortification burned in Lance’s throat. His voice returned in pitiful squeak. “Ohmygod, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I swear.”

Keith’s nostrils flared and his eyes strangled Lance’s pathetic string of apologies. Keith tried to leave his seat - probably to go to the lavatory to dry off his jeans - but the flight attendant (now armed with a lopsided bun and tight lips) pushed him back down.

“Buckle. Up.”

She looked menacing enough that even Keith didn’t dare argue.

**…**

“He was being an ass for no good reason,” said pixie-girl - she’d introduced herself as Kate - when the seatbelt sign turned off, and Keith stomped away for some paper towels.

“I did spill water all over him,” Lance pointed out in the interest of fairness. He chuckled half-heartedly. “And I’m told I have a talent for getting on people’s nerves.”

“It wouldn’t have killed him,” Kate insisted. She leaned over the aisle to squeeze his hand. “I get you, Lance. I used to get twitchy on planes too.”

He could’ve laughed at the understatement. Twitchy? He was a fucking nightmare, a blob of clammy skin and thundering heartbeat.

“It gets easier,” she promised. “Every time you have to fly, you convince yourself it’s no big deal and you get through it. And, hey, planes are the safest mode of transportation, so…”

Even though the tidbit wasn’t all that helpful, Lance gave her a grateful half-smile. “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

Kate seemed like a cool person. Lance would’ve tried to engage her in deeper conversation, but then Keith (and Keith’s glower) returned; his stony profile raised a wall between them. The girl resumed her typing, and Lance screwed his eyes and sighed inwardly. Back to torture and isolation, it was.

Out his window, the skies remained overcast and dreary, but the rain and thunder stopped. He could’ve cried for that miracle alone. The jitteriness in his limbs subsided by a fraction, but guilt still plagued him.

Keith had his earbuds on and tapped along to the rhythm of the song on his forearm. The thought of facing his glower again wasn’t very motivating, but if Lance didn’t apologize, he wouldn’t get rid of the weight on his chest. It was the way his Mami had raised him, damnit.

Lance cleared his throat, and when that did nothing, he taped Keith’s shoulder with the quickness and fear of a kid poking a bear. Keith looked at him out of the corner of his eye, annoyed in a resigned way.

“I-I’m sorry for the water,” Lance said. “If there’s anything I can do—I mean, I can pay for the dry-cleaning or…”

Keith shook his head, and strands of black hair whipped across his face. “Forget it.”

“I feel real bad, and it’s no trouble—”

Keith rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

Lance bit the inside of his cheek to hold in a barrel of apologies that wouldn’t be appreciated.

“Okay.”

“Great.”

**…**

The next hour was turbulence-free, to Lance’s relief, though heavy clouds continued to stalk them. It was so dark that when night pulled the curtains over the sun, there was no noticeable difference.

Dinner rolled to a stop next to them, but Lance took nothing. The turbulence could return at any minute; he wouldn’t take any chances. Keith also waved off the food, from lack of hunger or fear that it might be spilled on him again, Lance couldn’t be sure. Guilt and shame pricked his heart.

“You’re not gonna puke, are you?”

Lance’s neck cricked from how fast he turned. “What?”

Keith looked up from his phone, unconcerned, at odds with the content of his question in the first place. “I asked if you were going to puke.”

“What? No! Why would you think that? I’m totally fine.”

Keith shrugged. “Your face was doing a weird thing.” He went back to typing.

Lance’s hands flew to his cheeks and forehead as if to smooth them into a less weird arrangement. Heat climbed his neck. “My face is not weird,” he mumbled.

“Okay.”

“ _Your_ face is weird,” Lance huffed.

Keith nodded, still on his phone. “Real mature.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m not going to puke.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Lance leaned forward to try to catch Kate’s eye for support or backup, but she was still engrossed in her laptop. He slumped back into his seat.

“Why buy a plane ticket if you hate planes?” Keith’s voice was bland, disinterested, but a furtive glance gave him away.

Now he wanted to talk. Figures. Lance crossed his arms. “I don’t hate planes. I’m just scared of flying.”

“You mean of falling?”

Lance’s face scrunched in confusion.

“You’re not scared of the plane peacefully cruising to the airport, are you?” Keith said like he was explaining a simple matter to a moron.

Lance took it back. Keith wasn’t attractive or his type at all.

“No,” he grumbled. “I guess I’m not.”

“You’re scared of falling. Of the plane crashing. Of burning to ashes on the way down.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he shushed and clapped a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “I get it. Don’t need you to encourage my imagination."

Keith’s gaze dropped to the touch and flickered back up. Lance flushed and pulled away. If Keith felt icky about holding hands, he definitely wouldn’t appreciate being clawed on the shoulder. God, Lance could not catch a break.

He thought he saw Keith’s throat bob out of the corner of his eye, but he was too intent on the headrest in front of him to be sure.

“So why did you do it? Buy a plane ticket.”

Lance turned, equal parts surprised and confused. Why was Keith curious and talkative all of a sudden? He asked as much, but the other boy just shrugged.

“I have to make it in time for my sister’s birthday. Crossing the country on foot and then sailing to Havana would’ve been time-consuming. Expensive too. Ergo, the plane.”

“You’re flying to Havana,” Keith echoed.

“Thank you for paying attention,” he said drily. “Lance, Cuban boy, major in Photography, a Leo. Any of that ring a bell?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “I know. I heard you, I just didn’t think…” He sighed like he was steeling himself to say something he knew he would regret. “I’m going there too,” he mumbled.

Lance leaned over, amusement in his smirk. “Hey, do you think we’re on the same connection in Miami?”

“God, I hope not.”

Lance laughed despite himself. Keith’s scared expression was equally too honest and exaggerated not to.

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” Lance teased. “Besides, it’s highly unlikely we’ll be sitting next to each other again.”

“You’re right.”

“What about you? What’s waiting for you in Havana?”

He braced for rejected silence or a glare saying he’d overstepped one Keith’s countless walls and boundaries. Keith didn’t look like someone who answered personal questions. Or overshared with strangers.

So, when he did, victory lit a match in Lance’s pulse.  

“Foreign exchange. I took an advanced Spanish course and got a scholarship to do extra-credit. One month in the city.”

Lance nodded and suppressed a grin. "Okay. Alright. I’m impressed. Wanna flex your skills with a native?" He half-teased, curious to hear what was bound to be the cutest accent in the world as Keith spoke Lance’s mother tongue.

Keith's eyes widened. "No. I—I'm not that good."

He looked flushed. Keith-brooding-Mullet-boy was flushed, Lance (loser that he was) was riding high from the killer combination that were Keith’s pink cheeks and inky hair.

"You’re good enough to get into an advanced course and win a scholarship," Lance countered.

“Yeah, but not _native-speaker_ good.” He scratched the nape of his neck.

“I’m flattered.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Lance scoffed but it was pure teasing. Keith brought up a casual hand to his face, but not before Lance caught the amused smile he tried to cover. Something fluttered in his chest. A blushing, smiling Keith struck him as a rare sight. A treasure.

“What about photography, huh?”

Lance was more than happy to launch into a detailed – if not exaggerated – account of his first semester in college, the teachers, the parties, the finals. _Díos mio_ , the finals. And Keith rolled his eyes and laughed in all the right places. Then Lance moved on to tell him about the gorgeous _playas_ that awaited them in Cuba, the pictures he’d take of Victoria and Juanito under the palm trees, and the best place to buy paletas—

“Señor Hérmes sells the best ones in the country, and you’ll always find him up and down the sidewalks of Guanabo. Tell him Lancito sent you and your first one is free.”

Keith laughed. “He doesn’t even know you, does he?”

“Yeah, okay, he doesn’t.” Lance didn’t even try to fight the smile tugging at his lips. “But he’s still the best paletero out there. Don’t fight me, Keith.”

Silence hugged them like a warm blanket, no longer strained or awkward. The remainder of the trip was smooth. Time slipped through their fingers, between pleasant conversation and occasional laughter. By the time the plane landed in Miami, Lance didn’t want it to anymore. He could’ve done with two or three more hours in the stars.

Deep down, Keith felt the same. But he would stab a fork into his own hand before he admitted it.

**…**

“Excuse me, sir. Would it bother you to switch seats with me?” Lance gave the businessman seated next to Keith his best, dimpled smile. “Me and my buddy got separated by the airline charts.”

“Buddy?” Keith arched a brow when the man had vacated the chair Lance now occupied.

“What should I have told him? ‘Excuse me, I’d like to sit next to this perfect stranger who knows all my holiday plans, relative’s names, and whom I’ve previously drenched in his own water?’”

Keith shook his head, but it was good-natured. At some point during the last flight, Lance had learned how to tell.

“I thought the point of changing flights was not having to sit next to each other anymore?”

“Oh, please. You couldn’t spend the next  hour sat next to a stranger. I know you, Keith. You lack the social grace to survive that.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” He punched Lance on the shoulder.

**…**

No sooner had the plane taken of and turbulence struck again. The stewardess said something about tropical winds and summer storms, her voice garbled by the overhead speakers. Lance fisted his hands and fitted the ceiling. His airplane-Lance freak out was more embarrassing now that he’d made a semi-decent impression on Keith. All that hard work down the drain. A pity.

The plane rocked, his breath hitched, jaw trembled, and every time he hated himself a smidge more. Shame averted his eyes from Keith until—

Keith’s hand wrapped around his white knuckles and Lance’s stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the plane.

Keith had his earbuds on, head bent over his phone. One hand swiped deftly on the screen, the other wrapped loosely around Lance’s on the armrest.

The urge to thank him jumped in Lance’s throat, but he quashed it at once. If Keith wasn’t acknowledging it, neither would he; Lance was too relieved to risk upsetting him.

He licked his lips, focusing on the warmth of skin on skin, the reassurance of fingers entwined. Keith’s fingers were paler than his and shorter too, nails filed down for practicality.

The turbulence stopped, and in its absence, exposed his pounding heart. Good lord, was he that touch starved?

Now that the plane settled down, was he supposed to release Keith’s hand? Would it be weird if he didn’t? Probably. For all the jokes Lance had made, they were strangers. They’d met six hours ago, tops. With the turbulence gone, hand-holding might be an overstep.

Keith played on his phone, as serene and entertained as before. For all the reaction he showed, he probably hadn’t noticed the turbulence had stopped.

But had it stopped? Really? Because another wave could come at any moment. The stewardess had said so, he was sure. The turbulence had teased him the entire flight; it wouldn’t just stop now.

Lance let out what he hoped was a quiet breath and held still. Keith was free to pull away the moment he wanted to – if he wanted to. Lance was done overthinking.

Warmth pitter-pattered in his chest, and he found himself suppressing a smile. Here he was, thousands of feet in the air, holding hands with a cute boy he’d managed to charm despite being in airplane-Lance freak-out mode for most of the time.

“You’re not going to puke, are you?”

Keith’s comment snagged the grin from his lips. Lance gaped. “Wha—me? No. No! Why do you keep asking me that? I didn’t puke before, did I? I’m fine, Keith. Jeez.”

“Just checking,” He hummed with a shrug. His fingers curled into Lance’s as he adjusted his earbuds. And Lance’s heart up and left his chest to move into his wrist where it pounded embarrassingly fast.

He grasped for a topic to distract his mind from the feather brush of skin on skin, and the scent of coffee and honey coming off Keith’s leather jacket.  

“What’s so interesting on that phone, anyway?” he blurted, neck itching.

Keith leaned in and showed him a playlist. He recognized Hozier from that one song about a church, and Florence and the Machine by name only. Maybe Hunk listened to it, and that’s why he’d heard of them? He couldn’t shake his memory for an answer with Keith’s face so close to his own though, strands of his black hair tickling the tip of Lance’s nose.

Firecrackers popped in Lance’s sternum.

“Are they any good?” He willed his voice to come out smooth and collected. It was already unfair that he was a flustered pile while Keith was cool and unfazed; he wasn’t about to let it on too.

Keith raised a brow in amusement and challenge. “Only the best.”

“Oh, really?”

“See for yourself.”

“I think you mean hear for my—“

Keith rolled his eyes. The hand offering the earbud halted half-way between them.

Lance jumped on it before Keith could change his mind. “Never mind. Gimme.”

Steady drums and a guitar paved the way for a husky lead singer. It was pretty good, though certainly not something Lance would’ve chosen by himself. The lyrics were almost poetic but maintained a thorny, protest-y vibe that made perfect sense for the genre and the beat.

After a few songs, Lance relaxed. His lids drooped peacefully to the sound of whatever band was playing then. The warm press of Keith’s hand sent a faint spark into his tired brain.

 _He hadn’t let go._  

**…**

Someone poked his shoulder. “We’re here.”

Lance blinked at the glittering lights of the airport through the oval window. Cuba. They’d arrived in one piece! Relief flooded him, followed by a prick of confusion. He’d fallen asleep on a plane. In a turbulent flight no less.

He lifted his chin and found that the bony pillow under his head was, in fact, Keith’s black-clad shoulder. Lance shot up, scrubbed his eyes, and hoped his hands obscured the heat on his cheeks.

Had Keith let him sleep on him the whole flight?

The other passengers got up to retrieve their luggage, but Keith stared ahead in his seat. Twisted the chords of his earbuds on his lap. Lance's mouth was sandy, lips dry. Oh god, he hadn’t drooled on Keith, had he?

Lance ought to say something. But his tongue was a stranded anchor at the bottom of his mouth with no chain, no way of surfacing.

This was stupid. Keith was clearly waiting for something, and Lance just needed to get it over with because he needed Keith to move in order to get out of the row, and find his bag, and meet Mami and Papi at the terminal. He couldn’t clutch these armrests for the rest of his life.

Keith cleared his throat. “So, you staying for long? At Havana, I mean.”

Definitely not what Lance had been expecting.

“Uh, yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck. "Got my sister’s birthday, and then a week-long break before school starts again."

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

Passengers filed out in a rush. Lance did not want to be the last person on the plane. And he did not want to finish this conversation. He made a mental note to buy the aisle seat for the trip back.

“Can I have your number?” Keith blurted.

Lance’s head snapped up. “Um,” he blinked. “I—yeah, I guess. If you want it.”

"Yeah, to uh- talk, you know? Practice my Spanish."

A tentative smile pulled at Lance’s lips. "That would be cool."

“Cool.”

Keith handed him the phone, and Lance stared at it for a dumbstruck moment. What was his number again? When he handed it back, their hands brushed. A spark of warmth shot up his arm to his chest.

"Who knows," Lance joked. "We might even run into each other at Guanabo. I know Juanito will drag me there for most of the trip."

Keith nodded, a smile in his eye. “Maybe. Later, Lance.”

Lance grabbed his things and grinned at the stewardess, as he left the plane. There was nothing quite like solid ground under one’s feet and attention from a pretty boy. His mind launched into impossible scenarios where they bumped into each other at the beach and hung out and Keith gave him more of those precious smiles. Lance wouldn’t complain if the fates decided to twist their ball of yarn to make that happen.

He crossed the terminal with a cocky smirk. Oh yeah, airplane-Lance still rocked the game.

**Author's Note:**

> chat me up on [tumblr](https://flyawaycolors.tumblr.com/) for more klance madness


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